


Resetting a Broken Bone, and Other Important Life Lessons

by milesawayfromthevoid



Series: Task Overdue: Getting the Fuck Out of Derry [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Eddie & Mike need a hug, Eddie Kaspbrak Has OCD, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Mess, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Feel free to skip it unless you like arguing, First Chapter is sad and ponderous, Fix-It, Gen, M/M, Mike Hanlon Deserves Nice Things, Mike Hanlon has OCD, Mike Hanlon is a Good Friend, Multi, Myra Kaspbrak learned well from her unfortunately, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, They get that & therapy and a house in Florida, Trans Eddie Kaspbrak, Trans Mike Hanlon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:57:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23201755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milesawayfromthevoid/pseuds/milesawayfromthevoid
Summary: When Eddie wakes up in Derry General, knows four things:1. He needs to divorce Myra.2. Mike is moving and is offering Eddie a place to stay, at least until the divorce is settled.3. He's gay.4. Richie left a week ago.PART ONE OF THE SERIES: Eddie Goes HomeAKA: Breaking that Bone Again
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak & Myra Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak & The Losers Club, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon & Eddie Kaspbrak, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Series: Task Overdue: Getting the Fuck Out of Derry [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724122
Comments: 12
Kudos: 56





	1. Eddie Starts To Run

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: this chapter has an extended scene of Eddie and Myra arguing. This is mostly done as a means for me to write their dynamic, and I'm heavily basing it off the ten pages of the book that I read (notably, when Eddie leaves and Myra tries to convince him to stay). There is gonna be a lot of emotional manipulation and Eddie spiraling. You can skip to Chapter Two without missing much. Please take care.

Eddie woke up on August 30, 2016, with the intense need to fucking run away. 

Eddie usually feels the need to run away. He tells himself that it's normal. It has to be. He's a neurotic wreck about 99% of the time, if he worries about  _ worrying, _ too, then he's done for. But it doesn't stop the feeling. It's a burning itch deep between his ribs, a little like a healing bone. A reminder that things aren't alright and that he should get out and fix it. If he doesn't, and soon, it'll never be the same.

Sometimes, he'll wake up in a start, mind reeling from dreams he can't remember, and he's overcome with a sudden urge to get out. Leave New York -- fuck, the entire New England region for that matter -- and not stop moving until he finally feels safe. He can even see himself emptying his drawers into his luggage before peeling off into the night. He wouldn't tell anyone, because everyone he would  _ want _ to tell is already far away. 

Some nights, when his brain is more exhausted and muddled than usual, he gets the feeling that that’s why he  _ has _ to run: he needs to get back to these mystery people that he’s left behind, otherwise, something terrible is going to happen.

Some nights, the thought of sand, palm trees and the sun setting over the ocean, things he’s only ever seen in his dreams and on TV, call to him like a siren song. Some nights, going out West seems like the only logical option. 

Then he'd wake up a little more. And as he blinks and takes in his dark bedroom, he’d feel shame in his gut for even dreaming of leaving everything behind. He’d hear the traffic out in Queens, hear Myra's soft breathing, and he'd force himself to be practical. To calm down. He’d wait until his heart settled, take a puff of his inhaler to steady his breaths, then roll over and hug his wife. 

If he does fall asleep again, it's to the thought of him in a car, driving far, far away, and to a deepening pit of guilt in his stomach.

The need to  _ run _ is always there, itching at the back of his mind, but it’s especially present with Myra. He doesn’t know why, but for some reason she reminds him of feeling trapped, being controlled.

It's ridiculous. Eddie  _ feels _ ridiculous. She's his  _ wife,  _ for fuck's sake. She’s kind, funny, and sweet. She's stood by him through his transition, she's soothed him with all his nervous habits and his compulsions, and she's helped him with all his illnesses. She just worries. 

She takes care of him, he takes care of her. That’s enough for Eddie for a long time. 

Then Mike Hanlon calls.

And everything comes back.

Well, not  _ everything _ , but he feels an incredible sense of dread at the mere thought of his childhood, in ways he hasn't for a long, long time. He gets flashes, names, and places, but everything is still foggy. Before  _ this _ day, Eddie never really focused on why he didn't remember much of his childhood, mostly attributing it to it being boring. It was  _ so _ boring that he and one of his friends would spent days on end planning to move to New York, LA, Chicago, fucking  _ Florida _ even _ , anywhere else, _ and get an apartment together. They’d fill notebooks up with shit that seemed fantastic then but that's mundane and juvenile now, like staying out past midnight, going to concerts, and eating junk food whenever they pleased. 

Which, it’s not like Eddie couldn’t do all that  _ now _ , but…It just seems like a hassle more than anything. Without that nameless, faceless friend, those things just aren’t the same. His current friends are great, sure, but there’s something missing from them in a way that makes him uncomfortably nostalgic.

See, before  _ this _ day, he knew he was from Maine. And he was fine with not knowing much else. The name of the town escaped him, but did it matter? It was Maine, for Christ’s sake, they probably didn’t differ that much. He knew he was a sickly kid; otherwise, why was he on so many pills? He knew that he  _ had _ friends, that he wasn’t so fucking helpless to be sitting in the playground solo, he just...can't remember any of them clearly. He knew that he had a family outside his mother, but they never came to visit his town because…well, because of  _ some _ reason. 

He knew that he got away from his mother for a little over two months, during which he’d spent more time on the phone with her than outdoors. Before he got the flu and she moved to Queens and  _ never left _ . He knew that all it took was a little push from her for him to not renew his lease and to move in with her after the first semester. 

More than anything, he knew that he got very,  _ very _ drunk in college. Mostly on his own, since God forbid he go anywhere in New York, even with his most trusted friends, after the sun went down. No, he’d drink in the basement while his mother was sleeping because she still had an image of her “perfect little girl” in her mind and Eddie had to protect that. For his sake, obviously. Even when he resented her and the fucking picture of him in her head of him was suffocating him, he still protected it. 

Call him a coward, Eddie certainly did, but the path of least resistance just looked so fucking good when the alternative was his mom blaming herself for the "freak" he "turned out to be." As if he wasn't a freak his whole life. As if he wasn't a… 

There was always a word on the tip of his tongue, something he and his mystery friends used to call themselves, but he never quite grasped it.

He still rebelled when he could, obviously, but he got the feeling that it would be easier with one, two, maybe six friends who could have his back. 

Anyway, the point was: Not remembering certain things didn't really bother him. In fact, Eddie would argue that forgetting his childhood was simultaneously the least of his problems and also probably for the best. For fuck’s sake, he grew up as a mentally ill trans man in Maine. Yes, he knew it must’ve been boring, as Maine usually is, and that he was most likely quiet about his identity given his situation, but still. Dwelling on it was maybe the wrong way to approach it. He didn't mind missing the details, even if the tradeoff was heart-aching loneliness and a gut-wrenching sense of wrong.

But when Mike Hanlon calls, he gets the distinct sense that he drank as  _ part _ of escaping away from something, something bigger than all his baggage combined. He knew, more than anything in the world, that he hit the ground running out of Derry after high school and didn't look back. 

The details were still fuzzy, though.

But maybe that's to be expected when a taxi crashes into you.

“Eddie! Are you okay?” Mike’s voice floats from the speaker. Eddie’s still lucid enough to hear it clearly, and that’s got to be a good sign, right?

“Yeah, I’m pretty good!” he says, but his voice sounds high with…something. He feels like laughing — wasn’t he just telling Myra that he was more likely to get into an accident talking to  _ her _ ? “Mike, I crashed my car,” he says like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“I figured,” Mike sounds like he’s trying to gauge Eddie’s reaction over the phone, which doesn’t help the sinking pit of fear in his stomach. “Eddie, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, fine, I’m fine,” Eddie glances up, sees the taxi driver making some incredibly rude gestures from over his own airbag, as well as a small crowd of rubberneckers on the sidewalk. Probably tourists. “Hey, look, I gotta go, can I call you later? I think an ambulance is on its way.”

* * *

He misses his meeting because of the accident. Instead, he’s wasting the afternoon in the ER, in a scene so familiar it makes him want to tear his hair out. He’s clicking the pen they gave him to fill out some forms like a man possessed. He needs to do something with his limbs or he'll drown in panic. The only thing that keeps him from getting up and pacing as the hours drag on is the fear that he might’ve actually fucked his spine for good this time. 

He ignores the 'this time' part of the thought. He doesn’t dwell on how Eddie Kaspbrak -- homebody, hypochondriac, and heedful to a goddamn tee -- would ever seriously worry about breaking his back before today. The thought is absurd, but he chalks it up to another part of his asshole brain, blowing some minor fall in his childhood out of proportion.

Then, with a feeling as sharp as an icepick to his brain, he distinctly sees himself tumbling through rotten wood, his arm at a funny angle and  _ a pale face with a blood-red grin. Eddie is the weakest member of the group. This was a deliberate move. He was led away from them, and that’s all he can think about as whatever... _ It _ is comes even closer. His thoughts are a jumbled mess but the gist is that he is gonna die, alone, because that’s just how the world  _ is _ to the sick.  _

_ Or kids with inhalers, anyway.  _

He’s shuddering with something beyond the crash as the nurse calls him in. 

Fortunately, his injuries amounted to a cut on his arm and a bruise. He didn't even have a concussion. 

Unfortunately, he was aware of the conversation he was going to have to have with his insurance. It took the entire ER stay to figure out what the fuck to say, and even then it sounds absurd. To cut himself some slack, he’s also dealing with his anxiety.

Devastatingly, he has to leave for Derry the same night. It's non-negotiable. Mike didn't even tell him as much; he just knows that it is. 

He tells Myra as much as soon as she picks him up. Throughout the taxi ride, she’s adamant that he’s just suffering from some concussion that the doctors missed --  _ irresponsible and overworked, really, sometimes they miss things Eddie-bear, or  _ worse _ , they usher you out if they can’t profit off it, listen to me about this, sweetie, nurses see what doctors look away from  _ \-- and that he needs rest. He, meanwhile, insists on the importance of leaving. Both their volumes increase without so much as a passing glance to the cabbie, who Eddie thinks probably wants to kill them. They rinse and repeat all the way through Manhattan traffic, over to Queens, up the elevator, and into their apartment. 

It’s only when Eddie gets the suitcases out that she realizes he’s serious.

If he’s totally honest with himself, Eddie can’t say he blames her. He's not gonna overlook the weirdness of the situation.

Still, he’s annoyed. He’s frequently annoyed at Myra, at her inability to take him seriously. It’s not entirely on her, sure. He’s enabled plenty of her freak-outs, he’s had a history of letting her treat him like a child. It wasn’t healthy, but it was familiar. He’s annoyed at the fact that she went from condescendingly nagging and angry to condescendingly concerned and gentle. She knows how to work Eddie, when to be authoritative and when to be meek. She knows just what to say to make him stop and consider. See her position. Doubt his. Give in. 

He tries very hard not to fall for it as she hovers by him. 

"This is a very bad idea, Eddie," Myra says, for the fiftieth time. She's wringing her hands. The metal of the wedding band catches the light from the lamp, every time, like a searchlight, winking up at Eddie. It feels like he’s being caught red-handed every time. 

He regrets telling her the truth. No, not entirely; after all marriage was all about honesty. Besides, if something happened to him in Derry or on the way and she didn’t know the whole truth…Well, better to be honest about it. He wasn’t sure why, but he got the feeling that something dangerous and dreadful was waiting for him there, and he needed Myra to know everything  _ he _ knew, just in case. 

Sickeningly, it feels like he wants her permission. Even though he’s still packing, it feels like he wants her to say it’s okay for him to go. 

(Images of body bags and blood on his shredded skin loop in his head,  _ thank you, OCD _ , but he counters it with an eloquent litany of  _ shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shut the fuck up _ aimed directly at his intrusive thoughts _. _ )

Still, he's obviously aware of how worried she could get, and it seemed cruel in retrospect. He sounds like he’s lying, even if he isn’t and even if Myra believes him. He wonders if it would have been better if he just came up with an easy lie so that she wouldn’t have to think about it. Why couldn’t he just say business trip? 

Then again, crashing a car and leaving immediately after is gonna lead to questions. That's fucking given. 

Christ, why couldn't Mike have called any other day? Why'd he have to call at all?

"I know," he says. "But it's just going to be a little bit, just long enough to handle something. You won't even know I'm gone, promise."

"Oh, don't say things like that! Of course I will, Eddie-bear!"

He doesn't know how long he'll be in Derry, but he packs everything. He took two weeks off from work to be sure, playing up the accident angle. He's got enough sick days squirreled away, just in case of emergencies. (Even if it meant going in with a blocked nose and sore lungs because he'll be fucked if he goes to the doctor sick after everything in his childhood.) He's already got at least two weeks worth of his most practical clothing, as well as both his first aid kits, a pharmacy's worth of painkillers and antiseptics, and a baseball bat that he had bought (but never used) in college when one of his friends warned him about burglars in New York. He packed all that before Myra got into the room, to prevent her from panicking. He really wishes he had a pair of practical boots, but he settles for running shoes. He's still bustling about the house for things he forgot.

"What kind of friend only calls twenty years later and demands that you come over immediately?" She insists, following him closely. She keeps reaching out for him, but he pulls away as discreetly as possible: to grab his clothes, to close the bathroom door for his toiletry bag, to turn around and pretend to remember something else. He doesn't want her to touch him. Not usually, and certainly not now, because if she does she'll never let go.

Rifling through the drawers, he finds his flashlight. He’s tempted to take the spare, too, but if Myra needs it and it’s gone, he’d never forgive himself. He settles with packing a new pack of batteries, after a cursory glance that they’re not leaking. They’re new, and it’s stupid, but all the unforeseen circumstances that this trip is going to have is causing his anxiety to spike up to the stratosphere. Battery acid is one thing he can control, and by fuck is he  _ going _ to. 

“Eddie? Eddie, will you quit ignoring me? Do you even  _ remember _ what kind of friend Mike was?” 

That morning, he didn’t. But now?

_ He’s in pain and whimpering in a bicycle basket. He’s cradling a broken arm to his chest. Someone behind him – Mike – is cursing softly under his breath, like the jumble of voices surrounding them, except those are in full volume. Eddie wishes he could swear at the top of his lungs right now, scream it out until all of Derry knew he was in danger and someone came to fix it. But he isn’t too sure that he won’t cry if he does, and he  _ really _ doesn’t want to cry. He’s been through enough bullshit today. _

_ Mike seems to sense this, and one of his hands briefly leaves the handlebar to squeeze his good arm in comfort. The hand is gone in an instant to stabilize the bike before it can wobble, but the warmth and comfort linger. _

_ “It’s gonna be okay,” Mike reassures him, voice strong, soothing and confident, even if Eddie knows that's not really how he feels.  _

_ As miserable as he is, and as certain as he is that he and the rest of the Losers are screwed as soon as his mom finds out, Eddie still believes him.  _

_ Mike cares about Eddie. All the people on the bikes around him care, too. He's going to be okay. _

“A good one,” Eddie says. “I trust him. We’ve been through some tough stuff together, and we helped each other out of it.”

“But he’s bringing you back out  _ there _ . You clearly hated it there, why even indulge this? Why was he so vague?”

His inhaler is on the nightstand, and he quickly stuffs it into the suitcase, for safekeeping. Then, he transfers it to his travel jacket pocket, because what if he needs it on the road? "I know, Myra. I don't fully understand it, either, but I have to be there." Oh, his galoshes. If they're going anywhere near the sewers ( _ why the fuck were they in sewers?! _ ) again, those are going into his suitcase. Then, as soon as he can, into a fire. 

Once he’s stuffed them into the almost-full one, he turns to face Myra, placing his hands on her shoulders. "I know this is strange, but I know that I need to go. I think I left Derry for a reason, but now...I know it's crazy."

"Yes, it is," she tells him firmly. "Why don't you just stay here, then, if you left for a reason?"

"Because I think that if I don't go, something bad will happen to them." He quickly amends at the look of horror she gives him. "Or, not bad, but not great! It sounds insane, but Mike sounded  _ really _ worried and I don't think backing out is an option for me. I need to be there to help out with this. I'm going. I'll be fine. I'm not a fu— an invalid."

She's silent as he fills his second bag. The quiet becomes excruciating when he takes out his toiletry bag. It fills him with such a nervous sense of familiarity that he practically begs, "Say something!"

Another suffocating moment passes before Eddie hears a tell-tale shaky exhale, something that churns his gut. She even has the same tics as  _ her _ . 

"Let me get this straight," she eventually says. Eddie turns to face her and sees the furrowed brow and wobbling lip. "You get a call out of nowhere from a friend that you haven't spoken to in years, and it's so bad for your anxiety that you crash your car. You vaguely remember leaving your hometown for a 'reason' but you're unclear as to what it is, except that it's bad. You, _just now,_ remember the name of where you're from? Oh, and I'm supposed to believe that _you_ are needed to stop this bad-not-great thing from happening again, which you can't even _remember_. You, who's...well, look at you!"

Eddie feels hot with indignation. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Oh come on, Eddie-bear, you know what you’re like." She puts a placating hand over his heart. Right between the surgical scars. "Your health is delicate. And sweetie, you're smart, so smart, but strategy isn't your forté. That's not a bad thing, I love you for it! But I don't think you're any match for this…whatever it is."

He always knew that people looked at him differently. Even after all these years, with growing up, he knows that people still consider him weak, what with his height and build and his inhaler. The way his health had been ailing for years certainly hadn't helped any. But he always thought that Myra saw past that. He was a mental wreck sometimes, yes, and he hasn't hit the gym since he was thirty. But Eddie at least hoped that she'd think him capable of handling himself or at least trust him not to kill himself out of incompetence. He tries not to let it bother him, he knows she’s being logical and that she’s just worried, but it still hurts.

_ I don't like you hanging out with so many boys -- _

Eddie startles at the unbidden memory. He shuffles out of Myra's hold, who had tried to grip his shirt before he did, and caps his toothbrush. She’s not doing this to hurt him. He knows she’s not. She’s just worried, and can he really blame her? He just caused an accident, and now he’s about to run towards his hometown. The one he’d,  _ apparently _ , been repressing for years!

It still doesn’t settle the churning emotions in his chest, all tugging him away from New York City. 

"Don't be mad, honey, you know it's true. And it's fine! Stay here, forget about them! You don't need to do this. Besides, I need you here! I don’t know what I’d do without you."

"I do, Myra." 

“ _ Excuse me _ ?”

He zips up his bag, then shoulders it. He pauses, catching up with the weight of the words. " _ Need to do this _ , I mean. I'm not mad, but I need to go. It's gonna be a long drive, which I can  _ handle. _ "

She grabs his arm, stopping him. "Eddie, stop."

His heart is pounding, his mouth dry and his throat closing up. His fingers instinctively reach for his inhaler as his eyes dart back to look at the woman holding his arm. This stranger is wearing a familiar face. She’s speaking, but he can’t hear it over his heart pounding in his ears. 

It's ridiculous. She's his  _ wife _ . She's touched him countless times before. She's even held him like this to prevent him from doing something  _ stupid _ . He shouldn't feel this itchy urge to run, or have a chanting chorus of " _ danger danger danger leave leave leave" _ piping up from the back of his head. But he does.

"Myra--" he grits out, tamping down the urge to scream in fear or frustration or fucking _agony_ at being  _ here, again _ .

She sniffs wetly, her eyes watering. Eddie sees his mother in her place, weeping, trying to prevent him from going out by throwing her breaking heart in his face.

He sees himself break out of her hold, and Sonia calling after him when he starts sprinting towards his fate, towards a burnt-out house and a terrible, unknowable  _ It _ .

He sees himself speeding out of New York and back to the place he ran from, afraid and resolute and full of dread and, above all else,  _ free _ . Fuck, maybe he'll die, but at least he's not fucking dying _ here _ .

"How will I know if you're safe?" Her eyes are brimming with tears, and Eddie feels something ugly and distrusting curling in his stomach when he looks at them. He forces himself to, anyway. He isn't gonna cave. “You need me to be there to keep you safe! Please, Eddie, stay! Is this about the meeting this afternoon? If it is, I’m sorry, okay, just please --”

"It's less than five hours away, including airport security," he soothes, but it feels like begging. "And you can call me whenever you need to. But for God's sake, I'll be  _ fine _ , Myra."

"But what if something bad happens to you and you can't? Or what if you get sick? What if you crash on the side of the road and --”

"Please, Myra, today was a fluke. Which, again, only happened because I was distracted by a phone call."

"Oh, yeah? Then tell me you're not distracted, now! Go ahead, tell me that you're in a perfectly sound state to drive! Tell me this isn’t crazy! Go on!"

"It's different! I'll be with…" he stumbles over a memory. "I have friends there, they'll take care of me. I remember that they were very protective of me, so I'll be fine."

He hates himself for saying that, and it doesn’t help Myra, who pulls him into a hug. He lets her. He always lets her.

"I don't like this at all," she says. Like it's the final say. "Eddie, I don't like this. Why are you doing this to me? Don't you want me to be happy? Don’t you want to be safe? Oh, Eddie, I have a terrible feeling about all this!"

“I’ll be okay. You have to trust that I can take care of myself." 

She’s openly weeping now, tears flowing freely. “Eddie-bear, please,  _ stay _ . I don’t know what would happen if I lost you. Think of all the risks you’re taking for nothing at all! Just call him back and say you can’t go, you don’t owe him or any of your friends anything. It’s safer here. Look, I’ll — we can go out and see that movie you want, okay? I’ll stop bringing up kids, I’ll...I’ll...God, please, Eddie, just stay, I have a terrible feeling about all this, will you please see sense?!”

Eddie tries not to think that it's just one last try to scare him. Even if it isn't intended to be, it works: he hesitates, staring at the luggage and wondering how long it'll take him to unpack. Then, his phone vibrates in his pocket, and even without looking he knows it’s a notification for his Uber. The spell breaks. He realizes the importance of Mike's request, even if he doesn't fully understand it yet.

"That’s me,” he finally breaks from her hold. “I have to go, Marty.”

“Eddie-bear --”

“I’ll text you when I can!” he calls, and he books it to the elevator, ignoring her calls from the doorway.

" _ Eddie!" _ She's yelling after him. She's abandoned the concern and now just sounds mad. "Eddie, think of what you're doing to me! If you go now, don't bother coming home, Eddie!  _ Eddie! _ "

He makes eye contact with her as the elevator doors slide shut, but for once in their marriage, he doesn't feel the need to say anything back. 

It’s not quite relief that he feels when he rests his head against the spotty and grimy elevator doors, but it’s a start.


	2. The Long Road Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eddie phones a friend for advice.

The thing about facing the unknown is that, for Eddie at least, it’s significantly harder to do alone. 

He's had some brave moments before, but when he's alone with his thoughts, he can feel fear start to take over.

The closer he gets to Derry, the more he’s regretting that decision to return. He was fine in the Uber and on the plane, but now that he’s driving his rental solo along the barren highway bisecting Maine, he realizes just how fucking insane this all is. 

Which is, unfortunately, not doing any favours for his mental state.

The steering wheel makes his hands itch, even after he wiped it down. It’s all in his head, but he can’t help but twitch his fingers and break out the hand sanitizer at every red light. He drained the bottle in under an hour. His clothes  _ feel _ like they’ve been on an airplane for two hours, and he’s about a second away from screaming with how much his brain is yelling at him. He rubbed his eye at the last intersection, after brushing his hand against the armrest, and now  _ that’s _ almost burning, too, with how hard he’s thinking about germs. With every bump, his fucking brain supplies a morbid list of things he could have hit, even though his vision tells him that it’s just cracked roads and potholes. Jesus, his intrusive thoughts haven’t been this bad since --

_ “Greywater!” _

Well. It’s been a while. 

Music hasn’t been helping, and it’s really funny that of all the things he thought about beforehand, his CD of nostalgic songs was forgotten and left in his car. His totaled car. Which could easily happen again, with only a second of inattention. He stifles the urge to scream when his brain tries to make him check what else he left behind, and instead flips through radio talk shows and the modern hits. 

Stopping the car helps some, but if he keeps doing it, he's going to eventually turn right around and head back to New York. He can’t do that. At some point, refilling gas in Bangor, he starts to think about his marriage and then he can’t stop. 

It’s a wonder how many simple things became so complicated in less than 24 hours. He loves Myra, or so he tells himself. She’s his closest companion. He loves her in spite of the fact that she treats him like glass because she really does know better. She’s a nurse, after all, and she’s taught him so much about preventative measures to take against illnesses. Besides, he chose to marry her, didn’t he? He chose to date her, propose to her, not climb out the window of the chapel for her, say his vows with her. He married her because she was considerate, and sweet, and funny. At least, at first. Now, she was preoccupied with her candle business and nursing and taking care of Eddie. They were both frayed.

And yes, Eddie wasn't an idiot, but those parts of her  _ had _ existed. For all the skin-crawling familiarity with his mother, those parts of her reminded him of someone else who was funny, who was sweet and considerate in their own special, jackass way. Someone who made his heart flutter, his knees weak, and his face flush. 

Myra never had that effect on him. No woman, really, ever had that effect on him, if he really thinks about it, so he doesn’t. But especially not Myra. Myra is just...familiar.

He pulls out his phone, looks up the last number in the call log, and dials. It doesn't even ring once.

"Eddie," Mike greets, and his voice is all warmth and cautious optimistim. "Hey, man, how are you?"

"I, uh - frankly, Mike, not doing good. At all. Look, can I have a reason as to why I should drop everything and go back to my hometown? The one that I can't even remember the name of? Or  _ couldn't _ , until about, oh, seventeen hours ago?”

“Its -"

"Important, yeah, I got that," Eddie massages his temple with his free hand. "Just — Mike, please, I need a  _ reason _ ."

Mike's quiet for a moment, then he says, "When I say ‘Loser’s Club’, does that mean anything to you?”

"I- " memories of summer days, sleepovers, bike rides. Faces he still couldn't quite picture but the snippets that he got filled him with comfort. "That was what we called ourselves," he realizes. "Christ, Mike, why haven't I remembered till now?"

“It’s part of Derry, but you’re not alone. The others went through the same thing. Bill, Bev, Ben, Stan, Richie — they’re all going to be there, too. If you need a reason, then it’s because we won’t be alone in this. We can  _ do _ this.”

He lets his shoulders fall, relaxing. Those names do something for Eddie's memory, but more importantly, they do something to his resolve. He feels a little braver when he hears that they're going to be there, too. 

Mike continues on the other end. "Eddie, I know this is really upsetting, but I promise, if you come to Derry, I'll have all the answers. It’s not something I can tell you over the phone, it’s — way too much. I know it’s a lot to ask, but do you trust me?"

Normally, if a person he hadn't spoken to in years called him up and asked him to come to a quaint New England town, Eddie would assume he was targeted for organ harvesting. Bitch them out, eventually laugh it off, and maybe consider changing his phone number. But with Mike ...well, he trusts him. He hadn't heard his voice in years, but he still hears the warm steadiness of it, and he can imagine the years they spent together before Eddie left, even if his memory is still spotty.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. Then he laughs. "Christ, were you always this cryptic?"

Mike laughs along with him, more relieved than anything. "I guess not, I think it's something you grow into here." There's a moment of comfortable quiet, then, "Eddie, will you be there?"

“Yeah, I’ll — I’ll see you soon Mike.”

“Thank you, Eddie, I promise —” 

“Yeah, yeah, answers, because I have a shit ton of questions.”

"Exactly. I'll see you soon," Mike echoes, and Eddie says goodbye before pocketing his phone. As he does, his hand brushes the inhaler in his pocket, and he pulls it out. 

There was a brief, blessed window between his mom's death and meeting Myra where he didn't use it. Barely needed it. Sometimes his hands would twitch for it, but his co-workers and friends called it anxiety, helped him breathe through it, work past it. Some part of him always knew, of course, but it’s — a habit. 

It was only when he brought it up with Myra and she insisted that  _ asthma could strike at any point, Eddie-bear, better to have one handy than not at all,  _ that he refilled his prescription. She’s a nurse, after all, doesn’t she know better?

One hit from it made him realize was too strong. He barely remembers anything from his childhood, but his medication isn't supposed to taste like  _ actual _ medication on his tongue. It isn't supposed to make him a little light-headed. 

He stares at the piece of plastic and metal in his hand. He hefts the weight in his palm. He glances at the map strewn on the passenger seat; no exit for another forty minutes. By that point, he'd have wasted so much time and gas it would be useless to turn back around. 

In fact, it'd be a risk. 

He makes up his mind, then he tosses it into a nearby trash can.

Eddie quickly gets back in the car and pushes down the questions as he pushes down the gas, speeding up to Derry. Outrun your thoughts, Eds, you'd be a fantastic runner if your mom ever let you.

Mike. He remembers Mike. Whatever drove him out of Derry, he'll get an answer from him.


	3. A Tragically Unsexy Sleepover Between Two Forty-Year-Olds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over twenty years, and they still gravitate to one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Eddie talks about Myra in this. Their relationship is unhealthy, but I don't think that Eddie is fully capable of accepting that at the moment. He's going through a lot. If that's too much for you, it's completely understandable; it starts around "Awful close, Spaghetti [...]

The answers were pretty shit.

His fingers run over the matchbook from the Jade of the Orient. Logically, he knows he'll never come back to this place once he's done here. This is last hurrah between Edward Thomas Kaspbrak and Derry, Maine. The longer he's here, the less he wants to remember it. That includes, especially, cardboard business tokens from the restaurant where the fortune cookies turned into nightmare fuel. He doesn't even  _ need _ the book itself: he's got a pack of waterproof matches in his suitcase, as well as a plastic lighter and the flashlight. And as good as the food there was, he isn't even sure any of the Losers would be allowed back in after tonight’s stunt. Fucks sake, he isn't even sure he can look at orange chicken the same way again.

But Eddie took one, anyway. Even if he knows that he's fine, he took it anyway, because  _ what if _ . 

Years ago, though it only felt like yesterday, he opted to leave his first aid kit at home. On that same day, Ben showed up in their lives with a letter carved into his stomach. If it wasn't for Bev distracting the clerk while they shoplifted a tirage kit's worth of supplies, maybe Ben would've gotten an infection, or Bowers would've finished him off at the hospital, or he would trip and open the wound even more in the fall. The _what-ifs_ that ran through his mind as he unwound the gauze made him more nauseous than disinfecting and taping up Ben's wound did. They stuck with him all day, and he spent the next week checking in with Ben about whether his cuts were turning a funny color or leaking unsettling fluids. Stan had been eyeing Eddie the entire time, knowing why he was so adamant on checking in on his patient-turned-friend. 

Stan. Fucking shit, Stan attempted tonight, didn't he? Thank whatever good shit is left in the universe, he's still alive, but  _ still _ . Eddie remembers how hard he was shaking when he heard his wife, Patty's, voice on speaker, asking Mike what the fuck he told Stan. Eddie doesn't think he'll ever forget it, even if he runs out of Derry again tonight.

Bev was wrong: being a doctor wasn't in the cards for him. It was, in fact, on the top of the list of jobs he'd never consider. Forgetting the fact that, deep down, in the core of his soul, he fucking despised hospitals; forgetting the odds of catching something and being around so many sick people; one thing that kept him from med school was the long list of _what-ifs_ and the dire consequences of being wrong. 

He'll patch his friends up without question, even if he'll bitch about it to kingdom come. He'll diagnose them when he can, refer them to the best physicians he knows when he can't. Annoy them into looking into it when it's probably nothing. But dealing with sickness and injury as a  _ profession _ ? That'd be beyond exhausting with his brain. He's a protector, but he has limits, and those limits only reach as far as six specific people right now.

He figured that risk analyst was a better job. Most of his work was in the office, anyway. A plus of constantly overthinking every safety hazard when he is even slightly responsible for preventing harm was that his work was thorough. The dangers of mold, vermin and structural issues weighed on his mind constantly when he was doing visits, but he's worked his way up and out of them since then. 

For someone living in a cushy Manhattan apartment, he considers his life in danger a  _ lot _ . He freaked out last week when the delivery guy had dirt under his fingernails, for fuck's sake. But this is the first time in a long while that he feels  _ justified _ in those fears, beyond his own standards. 

Just one more type of exhaustion to add to the pile. And even then, even tired out of his mind, he's been tossing and turning ceaselessly, unable to even keep his eyes closed for more than a minute.

So, here he is, lying in bed and glaring up at a matchbook for having the gall to be the target of his compulsions.

It's past two in the morning when Eddie hears a knock at the door. Or, rather, a series of knocks in a rhythm he hasn't heard in years. But despite the time spanning between then and now, it’s still familiar enough to warm his heart.

He opens the door and sees Richie on the other side. 

"What're you doing here?" Eddie asks.

"Gee, Eds, I guess I'm just really nervous about my date with your mom and I need your advice. Does she prefer carnations or wildflowers? Or is it inappropriate to get her a gift when we've already--"

"Beep beep, Richie. I  _ can _ close this door, you know."

Both know it's an empty threat. Eddie's just as likely to close the door now as he was to close the window when they were thirteen and Richie climbed through it. Back when Richie would have nightmares that his parents couldn't even _dream_ of helping him with. 

Still, Richie raises his hands in surrender. "I'll be good, Spagheds. Can't make the same promise to your — okay, okay, I'll stop, just let me in."

Eddie gives a few grumbles out of habit more than actual objection, stepping aside to let Richie pass. His long, gangly legs step over the closed suitcases.

"Ready to flee the scene?" He asks, nudging one with his foot. "Can't say I blame you, but at least tell the Bonnie to your Clyde if we're gonna blow this joint."

"Some of us don't like bringing insects home via our luggage," Eddie retorts. "Besides, I don't plan on staying long enough to need the drawers."

"Right, right. It's just weird, being in a room where you sleep and also being able to see the floor." 

"We're not kids anymore." The intended bite to it falls flat but instead sounding wistful. Eddie hates that. “And this isn’t my home. House. Whatever, I don’t throw shit around here.”

His and Myra's room was similarly immaculate. He also didn't dwell on that.

"Yeah," Richie says, in a similar tone. Then, "I'd feel much more at home with Sonia's slippers to keep me company, personally."

“That is beyond disgusting, even for you. Besides, at least I didn’t bring food into my room. Don’t know how you prevented getting pests in  _ your _ room.”

“Oh, I did! I started a cockroach circus. Named the ringleader Pennywise and everything.”

“I take it back, that takes the cake. Congrats, you made me wish you made a mom joke, I hope you're happy.” 

"Thank you, I try. The clown seemed too obvious, y'know?" His eyes catch the matchbook in Eddie’s hand and he points to it. "Don't think they do take-out this late, Eds. I mean, I get it, you're used to your opulent New York Minute lifestyle, where you can snap your fingers and get pizza at four in the morning, but this is a small town with small-town values. Here, we go to bed at nine and throw our kids to the wolves no later than eleven, thank you very much."

"Beep beep, Richie." They're both tired, and Eddie's too done with pretending that he isn't fazed by all this. “What’s really eating you?”

“Well, thankfully, not the fortune cookie monsters --”

“ _ Richie _ .”

“No, just... That’s just it, Eddie. The fortune cookies -- Stan -- This was a fucking mistake.” He sits on the bed with all the grace of a puppet whose strings got cut. He pulls off his glasses and rubs his eyes tiredly, and Eddie feels a familiarity with it. A thousand previous times where they were in a similar situation, where Richie is so fucking exhausted of Derry and all it’s bullshit and resorts to this particular tic. 

It’s not familiar in a foreboding way, though. Not like with Myra. Being with Richie, even scared shitless, was like wearing your favorite hoodie. It’s comforting, surprisingly so, and Eddie wonders what made him leave Richie behind, to begin with. When he was with Richie, he never felt like running. He wishes that whoever skipped town first had stayed because he yearns for a past that never happened. Their friendship was his world, twenty-seven years ago, and just the fact that he lost it hurts as much as if he lost a limb. 

It’s enough that Eddie starts to think about the future he’s missed out on, and the panic floats above the ease. Weren’t he and Richie planning on moving out together when they graduated? What would it have been like to be his roommate? Or, even if they didn’t live together like they planned, what about just staying friends through college? What about just fucking  _ talking _ ? 

The subject of his internal crises continues on, oblivious to Eddie’s feelings.

“We almost died when we were kids. Do you remember that? Because I’m only just getting to it now. And now we’re  _ fucked _ , any way you look at it. I barely remember what It even  _ looks _ like, fuck if I know how we beat it! Just -- what the fuck, why us? I was doing just fine forgetting this place. I didn’t need to play knight in shining armor for a town that treated me like shit.”

Eddie sits down next to him. It’s almost second nature to wrap an arm around him and squeeze comfortingly. 

“Yeah, it’s shit,” he agrees. “I don’t have anything else. Guess we’re just shit outta luck.”

Richie snorts, then goes quiet.

“I did miss you guys though. Don’t think I realized it, but…” He places a hand over his heart, the gesture sarcastic, but he had a soft look in his eyes, anyway. “There was a hole here that only your fanny pack could fill, buddy.”

Eddie shoves him lightly. “I have pockets now, Einstein. Get new material.”

“Haven’t grown out of your polos, though.”

“And you haven’t grown out of making fun of my mom if we’re pointing out the obvious.”

“Can’t beat the classics, Eds.” He stands, holding a hand out for Eddie. "Look, I don't think we're gonna sleep tonight. I have my laptop set up and some gas station pastries wanna just watch something till the others fill up their beauty sleep quota."

Eddie accepts the hand. "Yeah, sure. We're beyond that, anyway." 

And Richie Tozier, who Eddie spent years thinking was cute in his own, Gonzo-ass way, and handsome in his own, Richie-ass way, says, "Speak for yourself, Kaspbrak, I'm Twitter's favorite mediocre white guy comedian!"

* * *

Richie had _Friends_ queued up on Netflix and they watched a few episodes with only light quips between them. It almost felt like old times, staying up late with cartoons and junk food at Richie's place. 

Of course, it couldn't last. 

Richie had just said something, but Eddie doesn’t hear him. 

Eddie is debating the pros and cons of an individually wrapped cinnamon roll whose icing looked a little harder and more powdery on the top than he was normally comfortable with. Maybe he just really craved dessert, but he felt a little more inclined to say fuck it and chow down, despite the voices in his head telling him about all the potential bullshit he could get from it. He’s so concentrated that Richie has to kick him to get his attention again. “ _ Earth to Kaspbrak!  _ Houston, we have a problem. Eddie Spaghetti hasn’t cleaned the wax out of his ears in nigh on 20 years!”

“What the  _ fuck _ , dude?” Eddie snaps, but with how exhausted and drained he is it comes out more like a petulant whine. He doesn’t give a shit, though, and tears open the cinnamon roll instead. 

"I  _ saaaid _ , ‘You know, I missed this,’" Richie says in a Voice, something like a kid character from Nickelodeon. Despite the buffet of pastries dumped out on the bed before them, Richie hadn’t opened a single one. It’s enough to give Eddie pause mid-bite. He wipes his mouth, swallowing thickly. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Yeah, me too.” 

Richie finally picks up a honey-glazed danish, but he just picks absently at the plastic covering. “I mean, shit, did you ever think that the last time we had a sleepover would be the last time? And like…Christ, don’t take this the wrong way, but I kinda wish we didn’t have to reunite this way.”

“Hey, at least it’ll be over once we get rid of It.” 

“If, you mean,” Richie mutters darkly. 

It’s two am now. It dawns on Eddie, in slow, piecemeal bits, like putting together a jigsaw without a box, that Richie always got a little sadder after one in the morning. Either that, or he was too tired to put up a front at that point and just said the shit that was bothering him. He remembers their sleepovers when he’d ask the Losers about their plans, what they wanted to do after. 

Now, though, he wasn’t hiding anything. He’d been pessimistic about their chances all night. Pessimistic, because like fuck is Eddie going to wallow in despair. He’s clinging to whatever statistics he can right now because that’s the only thing he  _ can _ cling to. 

And so, Eddie kicks him.

“Shut the fuck up, dude. We’re gonna get out of here, and we’re gonna go back to our lives, except now we’re gonna keep in touch and check in on Stan and make sure Mike gets out, too.” 

Richie sighs, pushing up his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Eddie wraps an arm around him and pulls him closer. Richie snorts, but the sound is wet and derisive.

On the laptop, an episode of _Friends_ just ended. The screen goes dark and Netflix asks them if they're still watching. 

“Awful close, Spaghetti. Sure your wife won’t mind?” he jokes, his tone a contrast to the noise before. 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure the bed is real cold without me.” He sighs, and maybe it’s the cinnamon roll, or maybe it’s the hour, or maybe it’s the dawning realization of where they were, but he says, “It’s a good break for both of us. We left with a fight, but a couple of days or so apart will only strengthen us.”

It won't. Eddie knows the argument they'd have when he eventually goes home, but that's a migraine in comparison to the pants-shitting reality of IT. Fun how Pennywise spins perspective like that.

Richie seems to sense this and raises a brow. “You two fought before you left and you think this will make things  _ better _ ?” 

“Look, she was scared, okay? Remember, I got into a car accident? I wasn’t making a great case for myself! I would have been safer at home. I mean, fuck, she was right. I mean, what would you have done in her position?”

Richie's eyes flick right over Eddie’s shoulder, his jaw working oddly. “You’re not completely helpless. I’ve seen you in the sewers, I remember that much.”

“So do I! But! She hasn’t. She’s just seen me with the jaw problems and the back pain and a pneumonia that nearly took me out at 23! Then the flu the very next year! It’s a reasonable conclusion that I'm in danger, dipshit!”

Richie twitches his mouth upwards. “Jaw pain, huh? Suck one too many magnum dongs there, Edster?”

Yup. Richie Tozier, exactly the same. As much as he loves, literally  _ loves _ him, he can never tell Richie that he’s gay. 

“That’s so fucking funny, Richie.” Eddie gets up, feeling too small in his skin, too seen. He starts to pace.

“Hey, maybe it’d spice up your sex life! Call up a bear or whatever, bring him into the bedroom, marriage solved!” 

“Oh, so you’re the fucking guru then, huh! How’s it going with your girlfriend, Rich? Did masturbators anonymous help?”

“Why don’t you just get a divorce then?” Richie asks instead, quickly, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. 

And Eddie scoffs because it isn’t. But how the  _ fuck _ do you tell someone, “Oh yeah, I  _ could _ , but if I do I’m really scared that she might die, or I might die, or we both die, or at the very least she’ll be disappointed in me, which for some reason is too much for me to handle. And besides — I’m  _ gay _ , and options for gay forty-year-olds with permanent grimaces are pretty slim, or so I’m told.  _ Oh _ , and the only person I’ve felt anything more than average homosexual yearning is  _ you _ , who once did a whole fucking bit on The Gay Journalist, and the Gay Fisherman, and the Gay Cowboy. As well as what, fifty fucking thousand My Girlfriend jokes? I don’t even know if it’s possible for me to love anyone else like I love you you, and I don’t know what it’s like to be loved in the way that I love you, but hey! At least Myra is fucking familiar! She’s safe, even though I’m miserable, and she’s miserable, and the totality of fucking New York is miserable, and maybe that’s enough for me! Maybe that’s all I fucking get! ‘Cause you, you’re not for me! I’ve given that dream up! This is my life and I’m fucking aching being asked this by you! So yeah, pardon me if I’m having mixed goddamn feelings right now about relationships.”

“We used to be good,” Eddie says instead, quick and mad at how the conversation turned. It’s not completely false. “We used to go on dates and shit. We just — ”  _ Fell into our past bullshit _ . “Grew into something bad. It’s not totally unsalvageable.”  _ I don’t even love her.  _ “Besides, she deserves more than a divorce after this trip.”

Richie regards him like he'd grown another head. “Dude. You realize you might die, right? We all might die?”

“And how do you think she’d feel about that, Rich? Enlighten me! How would someone feel if their husband suddenly died? She’s not a fucking monster!”

Richie looks cowed and finally holds his hands up. 

“Okay.” He says slowly, like Eddie is a wild fucking animal. Then again, Eddie feels like he probably looks like one. He belatedly realizes his chest is rising and falling quickly, and he takes a puff of his inhaler; he doesn’t even register the lack of breath. 

“Okay,” Richie continues. “Whatever. Just...consider what would make you happy, Eds. That’s all.”

“You wanna know what would make me happy, Richie? Like, fucking ecstatic?” Eddie said, swallowing against the medical taste of his bottled air. “I’d be over the goddamn moon if you didn’t call me Eds. At least till we put the fucking clown in the ground.”

And at that, Richie finally smiles something genuine. “Oh, but Eddie-my-love, what about my  _ brand _ ? Oh, _how ever_ will the Losers recognize a hulking, shaggy, dad-dressed cryptid such as myself without calling you ‘Eds’?”

And at  _ that _ , Eddie finally laughs. It’s tired and breathless, but he fucking laughs, because even if this is all he gets, it’s familiar in a way that isn’t  _ only _ hurt. 


	4. A Lesson Of Missed Opportunities, And Other Things Eddie Ponders Before Dying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie always feels braver when he's with his friends. And yeah, death is terrifying, but at least he isn't alone anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter includes canon-typical violence and temporary character death. Eddie will be fine, otherwise I would have tagged, but if you're going through it right now, maybe skip ahead to the next work. Or, I have a work called I Wish Things Would Never Change, in which Eddie goes to a punk concert. It's significantly lighter. Take care.

It’s almost 24 hours later and Eddie laughs again. It’s tired and breathless and it  _ hurts _ , so fucking bad. But the familiarity here isn’t fun anymore.

Richie just called him an asshole, but Eddie can see that the worry in his eyes faded a bit. If he’s healthy enough to take a jab at his mom, he’s healthy enough to walk out of here, right? Right. Eddie hopes he can convince Richie of that. At this point, he’d settle for convincing himself. 

Over the ringing in his ears, Eddie can hear his friends screaming insults at the clown. They’ve figured out how to kill It. Good for them. If he wasn’t so focused on not bleeding to death, he’d have a few choice insults to spew out too. Richie was staring at them, and Eddie knew he was needed, too. 

“Go,” he rasps. Richie doesn’t hear him, so he grabs his arm. Richie turns to face him, his expression a little wild. “Go, Rich.”

“But —” He pressed a little more on the wound.

“I’ll be here. They need you,” Eddie said, squeezing his forearm. He felt his grip loosen and his hand slipped into his lap without his input. To compensate, he twitched it towards the wound. “I can handle a little pressure.”

Richie’s mouth pressed into a firm line, and he looked legitimately torn for a moment. It was so much that Eddie wanted to say nevermind, to tell him to stay. Eddie wanted to tell him that he was sorry they didn’t stay together when they left Derry. He wanted more time. 

But when he heard the dying wails of the clown, his resolve strengthened. “I’m not going anywhere, Richie.” 

They hold eye contact. For a minute or an hour, he can’t really tell. But then Richie reaches up and squeezes his shoulder, careful to avoid jostling the wound. He helps to get Eddie’s hands over the jacket. 

“Please don’t go,” he says. He’s so sincere that it scares Eddie, but he watches with increasingly blurring vision as Richie runs to join the Losers. 

Eddie nods to himself. He won’t go. Where’s he gonna go, anyway? His legs are numb as fuck right now. In fact, his arms are, too. He sees them surround Pennywise, hears their insults come to a chant of “Clown, clown, clown.” As the world starts to dissolve into light and their voices start to blend together into a muffled hum, he thinks,  _ hey, this isn’t half bad _ . There are a million things to be worried about, but they’re so far away that he can’t really be bothered. The burning agony of his wound even died down to a dull throb, only twinging whenever he took a breath. That’s inconvenient, sure, but better than the sickening torture of before.

Some part of Eddie wants to join them. This is his victory, too; otherwise, the Losers wouldn't have put together to make Pennywise small. Obviously, he's happy for his friends, but he wishes he wasn't on the sideline. Moreover, the fact that he's just barely keeping it together on this momentous occasion should be a cause for celebration, but...h e can't really get his thoughts together. 

Everything is swimming together. For a second, he entertains the thought of his life flashing before his eyes, but it's more languid. It's not even all of it. The best way Eddie could describe it if he was really pressed to concentrate, was slowly getting back all the memories he lost. He'd get a flash of _something_ , then spend an increasingly foggy second just appreciating it. Bev in homeroom, mocking the teacher behind his back. Ben and Mike, pouring over a history book and arguing over source bias. Stan and Bill testing out Silver for the first time, Bill unable to hold back a holler as he pedaled down the road. Richie sneaking into his room and nearly braining himself on the desk as he fell in. Ben and Bill eventually getting along and trading tricks on drawing. Bev taking Eddie out for milkshakes on a particularly bad day for both of them, where they just sat together, not saying much but understanding plenty. Mike and Eddie hanging out by the quarry, the two of them taking turns talking a mile a minute about everything and anything. Stan being ridiculously great at video games and beating a flabbergasted Richie at every round. 

Richie begging Eddie to leave town with him. Eddie regretting his answer until he couldn't remember what it was.

But here they were again. Eddie was given a second chance, and he promises himself that when he gets out of here, he's going to say everything he wanted to. To Myra, to the Losers, to Richie. Especially Richie. This trip sucked, but getting speared through the chest finally put shit into perspective. Maybe he wasn't with his friends right now, but they were going to end It and then...then...

It's hard to think about the future. He's just so tired, and it's extremely easy just to sink into the dark calm that's creeping in at the edge of his consciousness. Eddie feels like he should be worried, that he should be afraid. More than anything, he’d really prefer to stay awake to see Pennywise die. Besides, he wanted to tell his friends something. Especially Richie. Or maybe...it was different for Richie. Just...he can’t remember what it _is_. It’s on the tip of his tongue, but as sleep is catching up to him, the words only get further away. 

He can feel that his eyes are still open, but the darkness creeps in and swallows him, anyway. He'd fight it, but he needs rest. He hasn't had a good night's sleep in so long. He’ll remember what he wanted to say when he wakes up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how funny would it be if I ended it there?


End file.
